The Indigo Sky

by Alison Booth

  ‘I’ll have to deal with Macready and his lot tomorrow,’ Jim said. ‘And now it’s back to sleep for all of us, eh? It’s been a bit too much excitement for one night.’ Though his face was apparently serene, he added, ‘It wasn’t an experience I’d want to go through again in a hurry, I can tell you. And I wouldn’t be surprised if Philip’s feeling much the same.’

  But there would be more encounters like this one, Philip knew. After returning to the dormitory, he changed into dry pyjama trousers that he pulled out of the locker with hands that were still shaking. The soiled ones he hid under the bed. For hours he lay tensed up, willing sleep to come. Never, before tonight, had he been so conscious of odd small noises. The rattling of the blinds, the general creaking of the building, the other boys snoring or tossing in their sleep. Just when he was finally dozing off, one of the boys got up and stumbled out of the dormitory. That gave Philip a terrible start, making him for a second think that Macready was coming back for him, and he got out of bed and hid under it with his stinky pyjama bottoms until the boy returned. Eventually though, just as some noisy bird started calling outside the window, he fell into a light and troubled sleep that seemed to last only a few minutes before it was time to get up again. Time for him to face another day. And after this one was over, there’d be another night to get through, and another and another, and he didn’t know how he was going to stand it much longer. He thought again of the raging water below the cliff at Coogee, and wondered how easy it would be to find his way there. Of course there was always Circular Quay. That was easy to find.

  The Royal Albion Hotel might be even easier. It was closer too.

  Getting out of bed in the morning with dry mouth and shaking hands, Philip felt overcome with tiredness. The sunlight, streaming into the dormitory between the opened slats of the venetian blinds, made his eyes throb. It didn’t help that his head seemed to be full of spongy stuff that made clear thinking impossible.

  Enduring the day also proved to be a challenge. His hand hurt slightly from where Dave Lloyd had bent back his fingers, although there was no bruising. So exhausted did he feel in class that his concentration wandered, and this earned the annoyance of the form master, Mr Walsh. At lunch, in the boarders’ dining hall, Philip sat next to Charlie Madden. No sooner had he sat down than Keith Macready walked by. He stopped to whisper, ‘Hello, pretty boy, we’ll get you soon, just see if we don’t. The prefects can’t be everywhere at once, you’ll see! You know what buggery is, don’t you? You’re going to get a practical lesson in that one of these nights.’

  ‘Keith bothering you again?’ said Charlie, after Keith had moved on.

  ‘N-n-n-n-no.’ Philip’s stutter was worse than ever and his voice quavered. But even if he could have told Charlie, Philip knew there was nothing he could do.

  After lessons were over, Philip began his piano practice. He felt too tired to concentrate for long, and anyway his fingers were still sore. Before the period ended he went back to Barton House to put away the sheet music. At the sight of the thick airmail envelope in his pigeonhole, his spirits lifted a little. Carefully he tore open the envelope from his mother and began to read the closely written pages.

  12th March, 1962

  Dearest Philip,

  We are having such a wonderful time in the Loire Valley. We’re staying in a delightful town with a walled castle and some quite fabulous tapestries, and I have sent you a postcard of the castle – or chateau in French – by separate post. My schoolgirl French is getting some use, although the French are simply terrible at listening and someone whom I spoke to thought I was Italian, which amused your father very much. He thinks it’s all because of the Common Market, the French simply hate the English over this and anyway they can’t tell the difference between Australians and British.

  The French food is wonderful and I would be getting quite stout if your father wasn’t so intent on exercising me by walking through so many delightful little towns and villages. But I will not write to you any more about food. Though I know that Stambroke is a simply marvellous school, the food can’t be as good as that provided by Mrs Jones in our dear home at Woodlands.

  I have two pieces of news for you, darling. First, I am expecting a baby!

  A baby, good heavens! Philip felt quite shocked at this and stopped reading for a few seconds. This news made him feel even more exhausted than before and he wished he could lie down for a while before dinner. Maybe he could skive off to see matron and tell her he was ill; that certainly wasn’t far from the truth. But first he had to learn what Mummy’s second piece of news was. Slowly he resumed reading.

  We found out only yesterday and you can imagine how delighted we were to learn this. (It won’t do my figure much good though, and all my gorgeous new dresses will go to waste and be quite out of fashion by the time I’m able to wear them again, but that’s the price a woman pays for bringing new life into the world!) The baby’s due next September. So then you will have a little brother or sister!

  Because of the baby, this will be our last overseas trip for many years. I am over my morning sickness now – it didn’t last long, just as it didn’t with you – so we’ve decided to make the most of the opportunity and to extend our holiday – isn’t that exciting! I do hope you won’t mind, dearest boy. This means we won’t be home until after the next school holidays are over. You can still go back to Woodlands, of course, if you want to. Mr and Mrs Jones will have returned from their holiday by then and they could take care of you. But your father thinks you shouldn’t do this so we’ll make some other suitable arrangements for you. Perhaps a week with the Mellors and a week with Auntie Susan and Uncle Fred, or even a week at Ferndale, I shouldn’t think that the Vincents would mind having you. Anyway, I’ll make some enquiries and let you know soon, my darling.

  Enjoy the rest of term and don’t work too hard. I shall write to you again very soon.

  With gallons of love,

  Mummy

  Pass the parcel, that’s what this was. Quivering with rage, his exhaustion forgotten, Philip put the two sheets of paper together and neatly lined up the edges. He tore the pages in half, and after this into quarters. He carried on ripping the letter until it was in shreds. That’s what his mother thought of him, someone to be disposed of as easily as this letter. Someone who didn’t matter. Someone who mattered even less now that a new child was arriving.

  There was nothing to stop him now. No longer would he put up with any of it. What he was going to do next was what he should have done months ago. He would follow his mother’s advice and would indeed have courage.

  It seemed easy now that he’d decided what to do.

  Chapter 35

  Friday late afternoon, diagonals of sunlight piercing the trees, the scent of autumn in the air and the whole weekend lying ahead. Enough time, Jim thought as he dashed along the path to Barton House, to see the housemaster about Philip and to check his pigeonhole before dinner. Perhaps pigeonhole first and afterwards the housemaster, there was well over half an hour to spare. The housemaster would ask lots of questions, and then he’d talk to the headmaster, Dr Barker, who’d decide what to do. Maybe Macready and his henchmen would be expelled, or the Chapman parents would be advised to take their son out of school. Jim had been wondering about it on and off all day. If he were headmaster, what would he do? Get rid of the lot of them, that’s what. Philip shouldn’t be here; he was too sensitive. And he was too different. Too effeminate. And Macready and his ilk were the end; bullies who’d be like that wherever they were. So it was best to isolate them somewhere – preferably near Emerald in Macready’s case – rather than put them in a boarding school where they could do irrevocable harm.

  Pausing in the entrance hall to Barton House, Jim saw two letters in his pigeonhole. The top one was from Zidra. Though he’d been longing to hear from her, he wanted to delay opening it for as long as possible. Once it wa
s opened there’d be none of this lovely anticipation, and he didn’t want to be disappointed, for a short uninvolved letter would almost be worse than no letter at all. He picked up both envelopes. The second was from Andy. Jim balanced them, one in each hand. Zidra’s was much heavier than Andy’s, and it wouldn’t just be due to the different quality notepaper. Her letter wouldn’t be short, he could tell that from its weight, and anything she wrote was precious to him. He would delay opening it until after reading Andy’s.

  His brother hadn’t written all term and it was about time a letter came from him. Of course Andy’s letter would be a one-pager, not that Jim could complain. His own letters back home were pretty brief too. Only the barest minimum, playing up the sport and homework obligations to excuse the lack of effort on his part, when he knew how keen they were to hear from him.

  He ripped open Andy’s envelope. There was only one sheet of paper inside, but it was covered on both sides with Andy’s scrawl.

  22nd March, 1962

  Dear Jimmo,

  Seems like ages since you went off to Sydney. Sorry not to have written before but the oldies write often enough for three. School’s as big a drag as ever, except for woodwork. I got hold of some red gum timber and I thought I’d try my hand at a stool for Dad for the shop. Mr Hargreaves got the red gum for me. Nothing much else has happened, apart from me getting selected for the school footie team. Now how’s that for an achievement, eh? The oldies are united in pride, even though she’s fretting about the implications for homework. Huh! Dad’s going to make a frame for the rainbow lorikeets she’s embroidering. I could have done it, but he wanted to. By the way, Sally Hargreaves asked after you yesterday. She’s going out with Roger O’Rourke, can you believe. Hope you don’t mind. Some girls have no taste.

  I wanted to ask you to forget all that stuff I told you last Christmas about Dad taking no notice of me. It’s all sorted out now and we’ve even had a couple of sessions stargazing. You are a hard act to follow but we’re all getting used to it now. In fact, I’m bloody proud of you, brov.

  Write soon but not about homework. Makes me edgy.

  Andy

  It was the newsiest letter Jim had ever had from Andy, and the best. Funny how quickly he’d forgotten about Sally Hargreaves though; he didn’t care who she went out with now. After reading again his brother’s reassuring words, that niggling little doubt that he’d never really articulated dropped right away. A doubt that he could now freely admit to: that Andy resented him. I’m bloody proud of you, brov. What could be better than that?

  Before opening Zidra’s letter, Jim yielded to the temptation to peer into Eric’s pigeonhole. It contained an envelope in Zidra’s handwriting, written with the Sheaffer fountain pen he’d given her for Christmas. There was no reason why they shouldn’t write to one another, yet he felt a stab of jealousy. Although despising himself, at the same time he couldn’t resist picking it up.

  It was thinner than the one she’d sent him.

  At this point he glanced out of the open door and was surprised to see Philip. Wearing his blazer and boater, he was trotting across the lawn. Silly boy, where was he heading? He’d be in trouble with Dr Barker if he were found leaving the school grounds. Everyone knew that meant expulsion.

  Before running after him, Jim hurriedly put Eric’s letter back into his pigeonhole. He folded his own envelope from Zidra and stuffed it, together with Andy’s message, into the back pocket of his trousers. By the time he’d crossed the quadrangle, Philip had disappeared. Cursing, Jim hesitated; it was impossible to guess which way he’d gone. The path to the right led down to the oval at the bottom of the hill. There was an exit down there but hardly anyone ever used it. To the left were the secondary school classrooms, and Philip was unlikely to be going that way. The most probable route was up the broad sandstone steps leading to the main entrance gates.

  A movement at the top of the steps caught his eye. It was unmistakably Philip, still sprinting. He’d got up all those steps far more quickly than Jim thought possible. But what was he doing heading that way? Surely he couldn’t be running away. He’d have to be stopped and there was no time to lose; already he was out of sight. Mind you, Jim thought as he began to race up the stairs, the boy wouldn’t go far. Young Debster had run away last term and been found by the housemaster skulking around in the street just beyond the school gates, unsure of what to do next. As Jim arrived at the top of the steps, the bell rang. Damn it, they’d both be late for dinner, and he hadn’t even talked to the housemaster yet.

  Now Jim caught sight of Philip standing at the bus stop on the other side of the steady flow of traffic. The Lord only knew how he’d managed to get across so quickly; perhaps the lights at the next junction had only just changed. He called out but Philip didn’t hear him, either deliberately or because of the hum of all the cars. And drat it, there was a bus heading towards Philip with Circular Quay showing on its indicator. Jim knew he had no alternative but to follow the boy, he couldn’t go back to Barton House now without first finding out where he was heading. He was far too young and naive to be wandering about on his own.

  But getting across this continuous stream of vehicles before the bus arrived looked near impossible. Seeing a small gap in the traffic, Jim stepped off the footpath. The car closest to him accelerated, he’d swear. The driver honked his horn and raised a fist and shouted something that Jim couldn’t hear. By the time he looked at the bus stop again, the bus was pulling out and Philip had gone. At that moment Jim saw another bus heading towards the stop and this one had Town Hall on the front. It might do. He stepped out into the traffic, cars screeched to a halt, and he got to the stop just in time to board the second bus.

  He was lucky enough to find a vacant seat right at the front, diagonally behind the driver. He dug into his pockets and pulled out the ten-shilling note left over from the free weekend. Grumbling at the note, the conductor gave Jim a load of small currency coins, and a sixpence fell onto the floor. He heard it rolling away. Yet he couldn’t afford to take his eyes off the bus in front. Philip could alight anywhere. The traffic was bad and the cars and buses crawled along. At one stop he thought of jumping off and making a run for it, to see if he could reach the bus in front before it started up again. But it was too risky. He might lose sight of Philip completely. He certainly didn’t have enough cash to hop into a taxi.

  A van pulled into the lane in front, and Jim swore under his breath. If more cars squeezed in between the two buses he could lose sight of his quarry altogether. Fortunately the van soon turned into a side street. The traffic lights were in Jim’s favour. Although on one occasion he thought the first bus might get ahead, the driver went through the changing light regardless. Once into the jumble of Kings Cross, the traffic got even slower. Now Jim started to relax a bit. Philip would never get off the bus in such a seedy part of town, and he even thought of looking for his missing sixpence.

  It was as well he didn’t. At the top of the Cross, Philip alighted, the distinctive straw boater making him easy to see. Surprised but ready, Jim leapt off after him. But where could Philip be going? As Jim followed him down a tree-lined street, he saw that the approaching darkness was bringing out the prostitutes and the drunkards, the cruisers and the junkies. Philip seemed to know where he was going though. It was then that Jim observed the map he had in his hand.

  ‘Stop!’ Jim cried, but the only person who took any notice was a middle-aged man in a brown suede bomber jacket and blue jeans.

  ‘Like a drink, young man?’ he said, smiling as he put a hand on Jim’s shoulder. His face was greasy and his nose dotted with blackheads. ‘I can make it worth your while.’

  Jim evaded his predatory hand and hurried on. A hundred yards further on, Philip turned into a side street, with Jim now no more than twenty yards behind him. Here Jim was stopped again, this time by a blonde woman his mother’s age, with the shortest skirt, lowe
st neckline and biggest tits he’d ever seen.

  ‘Like a nice blow job, love?’ she said.

  ‘No thanks,’ he said, embarrassed.

  ‘Fancy boy wants a pansy boy, does he?’ She laughed, though not unkindly.

  Only now did he begin to think of how his own absence from school might be interpreted. He and Philip vanishing together on the same afternoon; it wasn’t good, whichever way you looked at it. But it was too late to worry about that now. He would be expelled, of course, and so too would Philip. That this was what Philip wanted, he had no doubt, but it wasn’t the future he’d planned for himself. All the while he hurried on, his pulses racing.

  Philip was now about a dozen yards ahead of him and oblivious to Jim’s shouts. After stepping around some Aborigines sitting on the pavement outside a seedy-looking pub, Philip hesitated before stopping altogether. Taking off his boater, he stuffed it into a garbage bin, and next undid his tie and crammed that in as well. One of the men stood and shuffled across to the bin. He pulled out the boater and crammed it on top of his thick black hair. All his companions laughed and the man began a little jig.

  ‘What are you doing, Philip?’ Jim said, catching up at last.

  Philip turned. His face was full of despair and he began to run. Unexpectedly he changed direction, and stepped straight off the pavement and onto the road. Only now did Jim see the car that was almost on top of him. He leapt forward and lunged for Philip’s legs. There was a screeching of brakes and then a thud. A wave of blackness rolled over Jim as he fell to the ground.

  Chapter 36

  ‘Can you get the phone, George?’ Eileen looked up from her embroidery. ‘It won’t be for me.’